


Laughter Lines

by ShowMeAHero



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel
Genre: Angst, Bucky's leaving for the war, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Regaining Memories, Reunions, War, and Steve is struggling to deal with that, but there is a little bit of post-serum, mostly pre-serum, the idiots share an apartment what more can you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1591967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Steve, what the hell did you do?” Bucky asks. “You know what could happen-”</p><p>“Maybe I don’t care, Buck,” Steve interrupts, sitting up straight and looking right at Bucky. “Maybe I just don’t care. Maybe, just maybe, you’re going to be shipped out overseas soon, like you keep reminding me, and I just don’t care what could happen to me.” Steve swallows, his hands twitching against his beer bottle, but he keeps his eyes on Bucky’s face, like he wants to memorize it again. “I care what could happen to you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughter Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Laughter Lines" by Bastille, which is just beyond emotional when you listen to it and think of these two geriatric morons.

Bucky talks to Steve about it the night before he got his orders. They share a shithole of an apartment - some place in Brooklyn, not too far from where they had grown up, but far enough away that they never had to walk past it if they could avoid it. It was a night neither of them had to work, a miracle in and of itself, and Steve was sat in one of their dingy old armchairs, stolen off a street corner one day and beaten within an inch of its life until it was deemed sufficiently clean. He was curled around a sketchbook, drawing furiously with a thoroughly-bitten pencil, only glancing up at Bucky every now and then. Bucky was sprawled on their motheaten sofa, the photo negative to Steve’s tightly coiled position. He had been reading the newspaper, but had cast it aside some time ago and was just staring out the window at the dark city now, lights flashing in buildings every now and then.

“I’m probably going to be shipped out soon,” Bucky says, breaking the silence by voicing the thoughts in his head. Steve jumps, the pencil slipping out of his hand. He frowns at Bucky, then goes digging through the armchair to find it. “Overseas. England, maybe, or France.” He glances over at Steve, his head rolling against the back of the sofa. Steve finds the pencil again and looks up at Bucky.

“You don’t know that,” Steve mumbles, and Bucky sighs.

“I do, Steve,” Bucky corrects, and Steve goes back to his drawing, his scribbling angrier now, sharper. Bucky tries not to feel bad about that.

“You could just stay here,” Steve reminds him, not for the first time. Bucky scrubs his hands over his face.

“I couldn’t, Stevie, and you know that.” Bucky sits up, cracking his neck and stretching his arms above his head. Steve frowns slightly again, a small furrow appearing between his eyes. Bucky looks him over; he appears a little whiter than usual, maybe. A little less color in his face. He looks tired. “You’re not gettin’ sick again, are you?”

“What? No,” Steve insists, and Bucky narrows his eyes at him as he stands up off the sofa. Steve flips his sketchbook shut and sets it down on the floor beside the chair in one fluid movement. “I’m fine, Buck, really.”

“Don’t go gettin’ sick on me now, not when I can’t take care of you,” Bucky says, before he can think about it, and Steve’s eyes drop down to his hands.

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” Steve says to his hands, and Bucky passes by him, ruffling his hair as he goes. Steve scowls unconvincingly at him before he smoothes his hair back down. “I can take care of myself. I did it before you showed up.”

“No, you didn’t,” Bucky reminds him, digging around in their dingy little fridge before he unearthed a Blatz. He pops the cap off the bottle with his teeth and leans over to pass it to Steve before he reaches in and grabs another one for himself. “You were six years old and getting the shit kicked out of you when we met.”

“I could’ve taken them,” Steve argues, before taking a long pull of beer, and Bucky kicks the fridge door shut with his heel.

“You couldn’t’ve, as we’ve since learned,” Bucky says. He looks at Steve, then leans down, snatching up his sketchbook and setting down his beer bottle. Steve trips out of the armchair, trying to reach up and grab the book from Bucky, but his arms are too short, and Bucky holds it easily two feet above Steve’s head, at least.

“Give that back, Bucky,” Steve orders, his face turning a bit red. He sets his beer down on the floor next to Bucky’s and jumps, but Bucky just turns so his back is to Steve as he flips the book open. “Buck, I’m serious, give it here.”

“You’re always drawin’ in this thing, I just want to see before I go,” Bucky says. What he doesn’t say is, _in case I never get to_ , _in case this is my last chance_ , but the fight blows out of Steve as though Bucky had said that out loud, and Bucky straightens up, standing normally while he flips through the sketches. The city skyline, an elderly man down at the drugstore, two kids playing guns in the street. “I don’t see the big deal. I mean, you’re good - you know you’re good - but there’s nothing-”

Bucky stops talking, frowning down at the page he had stopped at. Steve leans around him to get a better look at what had stopped him. When he catches sight of it, he blows out a harsh breath, shoving a hand through his hair as he turns around, pacing away from Bucky. Bucky stares at the drawing of himself, presumably perfect in his likeness, but this, this is not the man he sees in the mirror. It couldn’t be.

“Wh…” Bucky mumbles, flipping through the next few pages. All him. Him from a month ago, when he helped the old lady in the apartment next to theirs with her groceries; him from a couple of weeks ago, cooking something at their burnt-out stove; him from last week, tugging off his boots, his face covered in soot and his hands filthy as anything. There have to be dozens, and some are just sketches that Steve must have drawn from memory; his hands, his eyes, his face. Plenty of them are just shoulders-up, in a whole bunch of different expressions. The last drawing in the book is half-finished, and it shows him sprawled on the sofa, the newspaper abandoned at his left, his head tilted against the back of the sofa.

“Steve…” Bucky trails off, staring at that last drawing, and Steve just comes around to Bucky’s front and snatches the sketchbook out of his hands, snapping it shut. Bucky looks up into his face, but Steve has gone brilliantly red and is scowling like anything.

“You just had to be a jerk, Buck,” Steve shoots, tossing the sketchbook into the corner and grabbing his beer off the ground, his movements jerky with anger. He falls back down into his armchair, staring down into the bottle. “See what you did.”

“What _I_ did? Steve, what the hell did _you_ do?” Bucky asks, pointing back to the sketchbook where it lays in the corner of their dark apartment. “You _know_ what could happen-”

“Maybe I don’t care, Buck,” Steve interrupts, sitting up straight and looking right at Bucky. Bucky fights the urge to take a step back; Steve is hardly big enough to be afraid of, but with the look on his face, Bucky can’t think of a guy who would cross him right now. “Maybe I just don’t care. Maybe, just _maybe_ , you’re going to be shipped out overseas soon, like you keep reminding me, and I just don’t care what could happen to me.” Steve swallows, his hands twitching against his beer bottle, but he keeps his eyes on Bucky’s face, like he wants to memorize it again. “I care what could happen to _you_.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Bucky says automatically, and Steve shakes his head, his brow furrowing.

“See, Buck, you keep _saying_ that like you think I don’t read the paper, or see the news, or ever talk to anybody outside of you.” Steve stands up again, his fingers tight around the neck of the bottle. “I know how many people are dying. What makes you so _goddamn_ special that you’re going to come home alive?”

“Hey, Steve, it’s me,” Bucky says. He motions to himself. “When have I not been alright?”

Steve jerks forwards, tossing the beer bottle past Bucky’s head at the wall in an expression of uncharacteristic, bottled rage, and Bucky knows enough of Steve to recognize when he is worked up, and has to be calmed down, lest his heart get pounding, or he have a nervous fit. Their neighbor pounds on the wall where the bottle smashed to bits, and Steve storms right up to it.

“Shut the _fuck_ up and just _go to bed_ ,” Steve shouts at the wall, pounding back against it, his face beet red now, and Bucky grabs his arms, but Steve just yanks away from him.

“It’s _that_ , Bucky,” Steve says, his voice still raised. “It’s that cocky attitude, the- You have _no_ sense of self-preservation-”

“Look who’s talking-”

“-and _God_ knows what’ll happen to you over there, Bobby never came home, Mrs. Freeman said Sam’s not coming home, and, God, Buck, why would you?” Steve jerks back again when Bucky reaches for him, but he reaches for him a third time, and Steve goes, letting himself fold against Bucky. Bucky sinks down to their dusty wood floor, letting Steve shake there, all curled up in on himself.

“I’m coming home alive ‘cause I have something to come home to,” Bucky says quietly. Steve turns his face up, leaning back on his haunches, away from Bucky, and stares hard at him.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Steve asks warily, and Bucky just shakes his head, running his hand through his hair roughly.

“I’m talkin’ about _you_ , Steve, you fuckin’ punk,” Bucky says. Steve’s mouth mashes into a thin line, and he stands.

“That’s not funny, Bucky,” Steve says coldly, and Bucky stands, too, and opens his mouth, but Steve interrupts before he can even speak. “No, don’t. It’s not funny, you _know_ it’s not funny, just ‘cause you saw-”

“I know it’s not funny,” Bucky agrees, and Steve stares at him again. “I’m getting shipped out, and you’re staying here. There’s nothing funny about that.”

“I should be going with you,” Steve says, and Bucky shuts his eyes.

“That’s why,” Bucky says, and Steve is frowning when Bucky opens his eyes again.

“That’s why what?”

“That’s why you’re upset,” Bucky explains, trying not to let himself feel anything but relieved that he figured it out. “Because I’m going, and you’re not.”

“I should be going,” Steve says, but he waves away the old argument before they can tear into it. “But, Buck, that’s not-” Steve looks down, shakes his head, then looks off to the side.

“What else?” Bucky asks, and Steve just shakes his head again. He raises his eyes to the ceiling, and Bucky storms forward, grabbing Steve’s chin in his hand and forcing him to look at him. “What else, Steve? Talk to me, like a human, why don’t you?”

“You’re leaving, to protect our country, and I’m staying here,” Steve says. “And I don’t see how that’s-”

“No, I’m not,” Bucky interrupts, and Steve narrows his eyes at him.

“What do you mean? Yes, you are.” Steve just looks confused, mixed with his anger. “You said so.”

“No, I’m leaving, that’s… That’s right. But, Steve, I’m not leaving to protect the country.” Bucky waves his hands, trying to explain himself, and he releases Steve’s chin in the process. Steve does not step back. “Well, I mean, I am, that’s what we’re doing here, fighting the good fight, protecting the people, all that-”

“Buck,” Steve says. Bucky tugs at the hair at the back of his head as he tries to think.

“I’m protecting _you_ ,” Bucky admits, in one breath, and Steve exhales. “I mean, that’s my job, isn’t it? And I’ll go off, and I’ll keep protecting you, just… from farther away, y’know? And you’ll stay here, where it’s safe, because as much as you want to enlist, Steve, _look_ at yourself. You _wouldn’t_ _last_ , and I know you don’t want to hear it, but I have to make sure that you _understand_ that, because I-” Bucky swallows, and shakes his head. “Steve, I can’t lose you. Not you.”

Steve just stares at Bucky. Bucky takes a couple of steps back, away from Steve, and Steve’s head jerks a bit.

“So, see, I’ll go fight, and you’ll stay here, and you’ll be safe. And then, when I’m done, I’ll come home, and I’ll keep protecting you, ‘cause it’s my job,” Bucky says. He looks at Steve, and his expression creases into one Steve has hardly seen on him before. “You’re my friend. I’m with you ‘till the end of the line. I’m coming home ‘cause you’re here.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, but he stops there. Bucky shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest.

“That’s it,” Bucky says, trying to ignore the beginning of a migraine stabbing at the front right of his brain. “So, I’ll come home, and you’ll still be here, because, _shit_ , Steve, you’re the most important thing in the world to me, and I just need you to be safe. That’s all I need, is for me to come home and for you to be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says softly, but Bucky just shakes his head. He picks at the frayed edge of his sleep shirt, and Steve closes the distance between them. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

“Don’t be,” Bucky tells him. “Don’t be sorry unless you’re not okay when I come home. ‘Cause I’d rather not come home.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Bucky asks. “Why not, when all you talk about is wanting to enlist? When all you want to do is go overseas and die in some country where nobody knows your name, and for what? Some war that’s never going to end. You’re _better_ than that, Steve. You deserve _better_ than that, better than dying on some beach in France because you thought you could make a difference.” Bucky’s hands fall heavily onto Steve’s shoulders, and Steve stares up at him, his neck tilting back to allow for their height difference. “Make a difference here, Steve. God fucking knows you already have.”

“Bucky-”

“Steve, I swear,” Bucky threatens, and Steve shuts his mouth. He looks up at Bucky for a moment before he steps forward, that last step between them disappearing, and a piece of glass shatters under the foot of his worn boot. He stretches up, boldly takes Bucky’s face between his hands, and, before Bucky can even ask what he’s doing, Steve is kissing him. Fiercely, too, in a way Steve had never kissed a girl, in a way Bucky had never been kissed before in his _life_. He finds his hands twitching up, and he is unsure of where to put them before he just wraps them around Steve’s wrists. When Steve pulls away, falling back down to the flat of his feet, Bucky exhales all at once.

“You swear what, Bucky?” Steve asks, and Bucky frowns at him before he remembers, and his hands fall from Steve’s wrists.

“I swear to God, you’re going to grow old,” Bucky says, and he reaches up, rubbing his thumb under one of Steve’s tired eyes. “Cross my heart and hope to die, Steve Rogers. I’ll see you with your laughter lines.”

Steve laughs, and lets his head fall forward, lets it press against Bucky’s chest. “Yeah, and I’ll see you, too, Buck. You’re going to be fine,” Steve says, for both of their benefits. “You’ll be just fine. I’ll see you, in the future, when we’re older, and we are… just full of stories to be told.”

“I’d like that,” Bucky replies, and Steve smiles.

“I thought you might.”

* * *

“You get your orders?” Steve asks the next day, as Bucky picks him up off the ground and dusts him off.

Bucky looks proud when he answers, “Sergeant James Barnes. Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow,” and Steve wants to scream.

Instead, he just says, “I should be going,” and Bucky shakes his head at him, and pointedly does not think of sketchbooks in the corners of their apartment, of smashed bottles on the floor, of fingertips pressing bruises into skin in the dark, as though they might anchor one to the bed instead of to a plane across the ocean.

“Come on, man,” Bucky says, pushing the thoughts out of his head and continuing to dust Steve off. “My last night. Gotta get you cleaned off.”

“Why, where we going?” Steve asks, and he wonders, why can they not just go home, why can they not just let this be, just for a little while longer, and Bucky answers -

“The future.”

* * *

When Bucky finds Steve again - when he’s more _Bucky_ than _the Winter Soldier_ , and, even though he’ll never be one or the other, he’ll always be both, he’s started to regain more and more of his memories, and things are starting to look like, maybe, they might just be okay again - the year is 2014, and Steve doesn’t look like he’s aged a day.

Still, when Bucky shows up at Steve’s apartment, his feet shoved in stolen boots, his sweatshirt and jeans feeling grimy, his hair tied up in some sort of messy ponytail thing that keeps it out of his face, it feels like it could be 1943 all over again. Steve answers the door, and he’s still taller than he was in 1943, but he’s tall and built like he was when he and Steve fought together as Howling Commandos, so it’s not too bad, not too unfamiliar.

Steve smiles when he opens the door, like he knows it’s Bucky, like this thing standing on his door didn’t try to kill him multiple times in the past year. He just surges forward and embraces him like it’s nothing, and, when he pulls back, Bucky reaches up, and it’s the metal hand that touches Steve’s face, but Steve doesn’t do so much as flinch.

“I told you,” Bucky says, and Steve’s brow furrows, and he’s at eye level with Bucky. “We’re older. Laughter lines, do you remember?”

And Steve _laughs_ , and, there they are, the laughter lines, and Steve - though it may be slowly, nearly imperceptibly, and, hell, Bucky might even be _imagining_ it, at this point - is aging, growing older, and Bucky thanks every goddamn lucky star he has.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Steve recites, and Bucky smiles, just a bit, for the first time since 1945.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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